To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [267]
The finger pointed at him. The riders faltered and some of them turned. A sword flashed, and he saw d’Orson fall. Then a horn blew, and with a surge they were off, all but half a dozen who closed round the boy. A man’s voice shouted a question; the boy replied, his voice shrilling with eagerness. The next moment a mailed arm came down, and the boy himself was swept up and thrown over the saddle. Nicholas saw his face, bemused, looking back at him, and lifted his sword, braced for the thundering hooves and the blade wet with Jacques d’Orson’s blood.
They did not come. The last he saw of them was a tight knot of men riding back over the ditch to the portals, with a glint of fair hair bobbing among them.
‘What?’ said Astorre. He leaned forward, staring at Nicholas. ‘What are you pulling faces about?’
‘Nothing,’ Nicholas said. ‘I told you I was arranging for him to go.’
‘The French have got him,’ said Captain Astorre. ‘The French have taken the brat into Beauvais.’
‘I know,’ Nicholas said. ‘And as soon as the Duke decides to get on his way, I think I might make a little journey as well. As I mentioned to Julius, I’d rather like to visit Bessarion. You’ll manage without me.’
Since this was true, Astorre didn’t deny it. He said, ‘You think they’ll let you cross France right down to the Loire?’
‘They ought to,’ Nicholas said. ‘The Duke doesn’t mind if I go, and King Louis has provided me with an extremely elaborate safe-conduct. In fact, I feel for Henry’s dilemma: we are either all traitors these days, or we are loyal to everyone.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Astorre growled.
‘I always do,’ Nicholas said.
Shortly after, in Antwerp, direct communication with Nicholas ceased, and incoming dispatches were confined to the news from Astorre. The padrone had left, it was said, on a short trip, during which couriers would not be available to him. The sieur de Fleury had begun an entirely fresh poem, which he hoped Mistress Clémence would help to continue. He also sent a new tune for the whistle. The Lady was much on edge.
In Bruges, the doctor Tobias Beventini of Grado called to express his condolences at the home of Anselm Adorne, and found himself instead in the company of Kathi, Adorne’s niece, and the youthful person of Robin, the unexpected new merchant apprentice – now page, so the tale went, to Nicholas.
Adorne was out, and Robin was visiting, and Kathi was delighted to see the physician and friend of her travels.
Of this last, there was no doubt at all: her elvish face was incandescent as she flew to embrace him. ‘Dr Tobie! I heard you had come! We need you so badly!’
She was too thin, she was a sprite. Nevertheless, there was no possibility that that statement referred to herself; any more than it could be relevant to the stalwart young Robin. Tobie said, ‘The lord of Cortachy? I was so sorry to hear of his lady. How is he taking it?’
Only when she coloured did he realise his mistake. He said, ‘Oh dear. Our other mutual friend?’
He saw the boy look at the young woman. Kathi said, ‘It must seem very strange. But Uncle Anselm has many friends, and has always led a well-ordered life. And Nicholas is alone.’
Nicholas. Tobie said, ‘He has friends. And a wife. And a son.’ He did not add, And two sons. He felt aggrieved.
Kathi said, ‘I haven’t even asked how you are. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. But we were talking of Iceland. My brother has gone, and I have to go back to Scotland next week. And Nicholas is so stupid.’
‘That he is not,’ said the boy. He was smiling.
‘You are both right, of course,’ Tobie said. ‘He is a clever man with a defective grasp of reality. Such people sometimes cannot be helped, and do no harm except to themselves. You have your own lives to lead.’
He had